Gunpoint

by Giles Tippette

  Ahead I could see the dim outlines of some buildings. As we rode they became clearer and clearer. There was another fence, but this one didn’t have a gate, just a gap. We passed on through and I could see Flood’s headquarters. His house was a big, rambling Spanish-style affair with a couple of little sheds sitting close to it that I figured were storage sheds or cook shacks. Off to the left of the house I could see two big barns set in a line, one behind the other. There were a few trees scattered around the place, including one big oak that sheltered the big porch. If you hadn’t known who lived there, you’d of thought of it as a mighty pleasant-looking place.

  As we got near the house a man suddenly came out from the back. He walked toward us. Wilson said, “That’s Charlie.”

  “Who’s Charlie?”

  “He’s one of them ones I couldn’t think of the name of.”

  We pulled up as he approached. He was a mean-looking character with a hard face that could have used a shave. I noticed part of his left ear was missing, the top part. I couldn’t tell if somebody had tried to bite it off or a bullet had done its work.

  He gave us no greeting, just lifted his arm and pointed at the first of the barns. He said, “The horse is in thar. Thet furst barn.”

  I said, “Where’s Flood?”

  “He ain’t here. You supposse to git the horse and git.”

  I looked over at Wilson. He shrugged. I didn’t thank the man. We turned our horses and started toward the barn Charlie had indicated. It had two big double doors. One of them was open. I looked around, but I couldn’t see another soul.

  Wilson said, “Let’s take it slow.”

  We walked the horses slowly toward the half-opened barn. About ten yards away I pulled up the roan colt. I said, “Let’s go on foot from here.”

  “Getting careful all of a sudden?”

  I didn’t answer. We dismounted and started toward the barn, being careful to not walk too close together. I reached back and loosened the revolver I had in my waistband. I’d jammed it in tight when we’d started out so it wouldn’t jiggle loose from the motion of the horse.

  We came to the open door of the barn. It was very light outside and dark in the barn. I couldn’t see a thing. Then a voice said, “Come in, gentlemen. Come in out of the sun.”

  It was Flood. I wasn’t surprised even if Charlie had said he wasn’t there. We took a few steps into the dimness and then stopped, letting our eyes adjust.

  The barn was a long one, about thirty yards long. As my eyes adjusted I could see Flood at the end. He was sitting in a wheelchair with what looked like a blanket over his lap. Milton was right behind him, and Bank Money was tied just to Flood’s right.

  Flood said, “Come closer, Mister Williams. Here’s your horse.”

  We went cautiously, looking left, right, and up. It was an ordinary-looking barn. There was a hayloft overhead that ran about a third of the barn’s length beginning at the back. Along the sides were barrels, stacks of lumber, bales of wire, and fence posts piled in a heap; all the paraphernalia you’d find in a barn on a working cattle ranch.

  About ten yards from where Flood was we came to a stop. It looked kind of funny, the way they were arranged. Bank Money was snubbed to a post, his long body running parallel to the long barn. Flood’s wheelchair was kind of half turned toward the horse. I didn’t know what he was doing in a wheelchair, but I figured it made it easier for him to get around the ranch. I knew he couldn’t walk very far on his own. Milton was just behind him and a little off to his left. I guessed Flood was up so close to the horse because he’d been petting him or something, but I sure as hell couldn’t figure out what he was doing with the blanket in his lap. It was a long ways from being cool, much less cold.

  Flood said, “Ah, I see you have brought Mister Wilson Young with you. That is just grand. Makes it easier all around.”

  Wilson was on my left and about a half a step back. I said, “I’ll take my horse and leave. That’s all we come for.”

  Flood said, “He’s your horse, Mister Williams. That was the agreement. Winner takes the loser’s horse. Of course there was nothing in the agreement that said what condition the horse had to be in.” Then, with his left hand, he suddenly swept the blanket back and I saw what its purpose had been. It had been hiding a shotgun. The shotgun was in Mister Flood’s lap. The barrel of the shotgun was pointed straight at the left knee of Bank Money. Even from ten yards I could see that Flood had one finger inside the trigger guard.

  I said, “Flood, you harm that horse and I’ll kill you.”

  Flood said, “Damn you, Williams, you beat me. I don’t know how you beat me but you did. You cheated me. But now I’m going to cheat you. I will not be beaten by you again.”

  Beside me Wilson said very lowly, “We got company at the front door. I’m going to put my back to yours.”

  I felt him move. I put my right hand behind my back. I could feel Wilson with the back of my hand as I curled my fingers around the butt of the gun I had hidden in my waistband.

  I said, “Flood, you gave me your word that the race would end this. Get that shotgun away from that horse!”

  Wilson said very low, “I got four on my end. They have come inside.”

  I was just thinking that they’d done it so their eyes could adjust when Flood took the barrel of the shotgun away from the horse’s knee and began swinging it around toward me. In the instant I saw the movement start I drew the revolver and fired. The bullet took Flood square in the chest, the power of the slug tipping his wheelchair backwards and into Milton. The shotgun he was holding fired, but the discharge went into the ground. Milton was trying to draw and shove the wheelchair away at the same time when I thumbed off a shot at him. It took him in the shoulder and he staggered back. I shot him again, knowing the real danger was from the four men behind me. I could hear Wilson firing, his revolver sounding like a Gatling gun. It was all smoke and noise and confusion.

  The second shot had knocked Milton down. I whirled to my right, trying to throw myself behind a pile of fence posts as protection from the fire coming from the front of the barn. But as I whirled I felt a slug take me in the right hip. The force of the slug and my own momentum caused me to flip on around and land on my back behind the fence posts. I was suddenly staring up at the ceiling of the barn and the floor of the hayloft. I saw a man leaning over the railing of the loft aiming a shotgun down at Wilson. I fired just before he did. I could see by the way his head suddenly snapped back that I’d hit him in the head. But his shotgun fired anyway. From somewhere off to my left I heard a sharp cry from Wilson.

  But I had no time to look his way. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Milton trying to struggle up, a revolver in his right hand. I shot him twice, the second bullet catching him high on the chest and knocking him back against the back wall of the barn. He slid slowly to the floor.

  I dropped the revolver I’d been holding. It was empty. I jerked out the gun that was still in my holster and faced forward. A figure was suddenly ducking out of the barn. Wilson was lying prone behind a beam support post. As the man dodged out the door Wilson suddenly jumped to his feet and ran to the end of the barn. I got up, limping along from the pain in my hip. Just as I got to the door of the barn I heard a shot. I stopped and leaned against the barn door. My hip was hurting like hell. I looked down. There was blood all the way down my jeans. I looked carefully at my hip, certain the bullet had gone through and broken the bone.

  There was a hole in the thick leather of my gun belt. There was another hole in the fabric of my jeans just above the gun belt. I figured that for a good sign. If the bullet had hit the bone it would have stopped, it wouldn’t have come on through.

  I just sagged against the door, resting. The barn was full of gun smoke, but it was gradually clearing. There were three bodies just inside the door. None of them were moving or making any sounds. Down at the end Flood’s body was hidden by his overturned wheelchair, but I could see one of his legs sticking out. Bank Money was j
umping around and snorting and neighing nervously. He couldn’t do much jumping around because he was on such a short tether. He looked fine, though I was damned if I could see how he’d escaped being hit with all the lead flying around. But I guessed that was because they had been shooting at me and Wilson.

  About then Wilson came limping back through the door, loading his revolver as he walked. He said, “Damn sonofabitch tried to get away.”

  “You hurt?”

  “A little. Some sonofabitch put a shotgun pellet in the calf of my right leg. You get him?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Up in the hayloft.”

  “You all right?” He looked down at my bloody right pants leg.

  “Seems like,” I said.

  “Your horse all right?”

  “Seems like.”

  “Well? Ain’t he what we come for?”

  I pushed away from the door, limped down to the end of the barn, and untied the jittery horse. I took a moment to stroke his neck and calm him down. Mister Flood was just at my feet. He looked like a little rag doll somebody had thrown over in the corner. Well, he’d plagued my family for the last time. I didn’t feel the slightest twinge about having shot him.

  I led the racehorse back up to the doors and out into the sunshine. Wilson had led our horses up. They’d both stood like statues all through the gunfight. Wilson held Bank Money’s lead rope while I got awkwardly aboard the roan colt. He handed me the rope with a grin. “That hurt?” he said.

  “Oh, fuck you.”

  He mounted. “I’ve already explained about that to you.”

  Before we rode away I said, “What about that mess in there?” I indicated the barn.

  “Oh, somebody will find them. None of our business.”

  As we rode away I said, “Well, that’s that.”

  Wilson said, “Funny thing, you said I was going to feel foolish. I don’t feel foolish. Do you?”

  I didn’t say anything. My hip was hurting like hell, but at least it was working.

  Wilson said, “Let’s get to my place and let them girls do some doctoring on us. They nearly as good at doctoring as they are at dancing.”

  I had my spare revolver shoved down in the waistband of my pants. It was digging into me. I pulled it out, and then tried to turn and put it in my saddlebags. The pain in my hip pulled me up short. Wilson saw what was happening and rode closer and took the revolver out of my hand. Then he let his horse drop back a pace so he could lift up the flap of my saddlebags and drop it in. He said, “You losing much blood?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t reckon we ought to stop and bind it up? That looks like nearly a new shirt you’re wearing there. Ought to be clean enough.”

  I smiled slightly. “I’ll make it to your place. Then we’ll use one of your new shirts.”

  My ears were still ringing from the barrage of gunshots in the confines of the barn, and I could still smell the gunpowder and my hip was hurting, but mainly what I was feeling was tired, just plain tired. I’d been strung up by my thumbs for close on to a month and now I was worn out. All I wanted was to lie down on something not too hard with a drink of whiskey, and just lay there until I felt like getting up.

  We rode on. It seemed a lot further going back than it had coming. Eventually we got to Wilson’s land. Just before we got to the house I finally said, “Thanks.”

  He looked at me. “What?”

  “You heard me. I ain’t going to make a speech.”

  He laughed.

  By the time we’d pulled up in front of Wilson’s ranch house my wound had stiffened up so that I was having trouble swinging my leg over the saddle. The girls came running out, and when they saw the blood on my pants legs, they went to jumping around and chattering and trying to help. The last thing I wanted was a couple of little girls helping me get off a horse.

  I let them take some of my weight, and then they helped me into the house and sat me down in a straight-backed wooden chair. I was considerably nervous about my hip. A hip injury is just about the worst thing that can happen to a man that makes his living in the saddle.

  Wilson had come in and sat down on the settee. He’d found a bottle of brandy and a glass. I said, “I could use a swallow of that.”

  He said, “You don’t like brandy. Remember?”

  I was about to answer him when I became aware that the girls were setting out to take off my jeans. They’d already removed my gun belt and unbuckled my pants belt, and were going about the business of unbuttoning my jeans and pulling them down. I made a grab for the top of my pants and said, “Here! Wait a minute!”

  Wilson said, “Oh, don’t be loco, Justa. We got to see how bad you’re hurt.”

  “Then tell these girls to get out of here. I ain’t got on no underwear. Don’t use it.”

  “Oh, hell!” Wilson said. “They ain’t gonna see nothin’ they ain’t seen before.”

  Just then Evita jerked my hands away from the grip I had on the top of my jeans, and at the same time Lupita pulled them down on the right side, exposing the gunshot wound.

  I looked down. It was just a long furrow through the flesh just below the point of the hip. It appeared to angle down, though it was hard to tell because of all the blood. I calculated that maybe the heavy leather of my gun belt had deflected the path of the bullet because, if it had kept on the way it had been headed, it would have hit the point of the hip and maybe cracked the whole damn thing. I had been plenty lucky and there was no mistake about that.

  Wilson limped over and looked. “Hell, that ain’t no wound. Here I been babying you because I though you was hurt. Evita cuts me worse than that every time she shaves me. Get up and get your own drink.”

  Since I was already exposed I didn’t protest when the girls took off my boots and then worked my jeans all the way off me. Evita cleaned the wound with some of Wilson’s brandy. That did smart a little, and I did a bit of jiggling around while Wilson watched and laughed. Then Evita smeared the wound with what Wilson called her “heathen herbal salve,” and then they tore up a clean bed sheet and bandaged me by winding strips of the cloth around and around my hips. Wilson said he had a pair of jeans that might fit me. He said they were from the days when he was a little bigger. I put them on. They didn’t quite fit, but they were close enough. I figured to go back to town as soon as I could, get my clothes and gear, and check out of the hotel. I also figured the sheriff ought to be told about what he’d find out at Flood’s ranch.

  But first I watched while Wilson lay on his belly on the settee and Evita dug the little shotgun pellet out of his calf. He just lay there, smiling at me, sipping brandy and trying to make me believe it didn’t hurt. Then she went just a touch too deep and he let out a yelp and spilled his brandy. He looked around at Evita. He said, “Goddam, woman, you just hit the bone!”

  I said, “Oh, quit whining. That ain’t even no real bullet in there. I don’t even know why you’re bothering with it. It ain’t like you’d actually been shot.”

  He give me a look. “If you’d held up your goddam end I wouldn’t have been. Ought to have knowed they’d be a man in that hayloft.”

  “Where the hell you think I got this thing in my hip that looks like the bed of the Colorado River? Man that hit me should never have got off a shot, not if you’d been doing your job.”

  “Bullshit! I had four on my end, you didn’t have but two and a half on your—goddammit, Evita, that ain’t beefsteak you’re carving on!”

  That evening we sat out on the porch like we usually did. I was beginning to feel rested. We sat there drinking brandy and smoking cigars. I preferred cigarillos, but Wilson had insisted they weren’t high-class enough for the occasion, so we smoked cigars.

  I said, “You reckon there’ll be trouble over the matter?”

  Wilson shook his head. “Don’t see how there can be. They was damn sure armed, even Flood. And there was seven of them and only two of us. And we was there on legitimate busine
ss. I don’t reckon a case can be made that we bushwhacked them. Besides, Flood ain’t got many friends. In fact, I don’t think he’s got any friends.”

  “What about the insurance policy of money the rumor says he left in case somebody killed him?”

  Wilson shrugged. “Even if it’s true, I got the feeling that the ones who’d have been expected to collect it ain’t in no position to do anything on account of them being dead.”

  “What about the sheriff?”

  “Well, it’s going to cost him some money but, hell, he’s a businessman. He knew somebody was going to kill Flood sooner or later, even if they had to hold their nose to do it. He’ll find somebody else to take up the slack.”

  “Well, what about you?”

  He looked at me. “What?”

  “Well, here you are a wanted criminal. You can’t be around no investigation.”

  “Hell,” he said, “are you loco? The sheriff can’t afford to lose two customers that close together.”

  I looked out into the dark. “Any sign of the guitar player?”

  Wilson said, “He’s coming, on his way.”

  * * *

  I had to hang about Del Rio for several more days while they gathered up what they called a grand jury and held a hearing. I’d had several telegrams from Norris, all saying pretty much the same thing: where in hell was I and what was going on? I figured to wire him back when it was all over.

  The grand jury investigation didn’t amount to much. The sheriff gave evidence about what he’d found at Flood’s ranch. Mister Sloan explained about the bet and that the horse, Bank Money, belonged to me. The other judges testified I’d won the race fair and square. And the unanimous consensus was that me and Wilson had won the gunfight fair and square. One wag on the jury even offered up the thought that Flood’s corpse ought to be indicted for horse theft since he’d tried to keep me from my lawful property. Wilson had been right; the only friends Flood had were those he could buy. I still felt not the slightest twinge of remorse about shooting him.